Valley man savoring small victories
By CHARLES WALSH cwalsh@ctpost.com
Connecticut Post Online
Article Last Updated:12/25/2006 01:35:41 PM EST
Watching John Saling playing a particularly jolly Santa Claus at the Spooner House shelter s annual
Christmas party last week, you might never guess where he was just five years ago.
On a warm July day in 2001, he stood on an Interstate 95 bridge over the Norwalk River preparing to
jump to his death. It was a real low point, said the 46-year-old Derby resident, who has known more
than his share of low points in his lifelong struggle with mental illness.
I had no direction, no purpose, no money, no goals. So when I totaled my car in an accident that day, it
was like the straw that broke the camel s back. As he rode in the cab of the flatbed taking his ruined car
to the garage, they crossed the Yankee Doodle Bridge, which rises high over the river. An
overwhelming feeling of despair washed over him.
When I got out of that truck, I walked back up onto I- 95 to the bridge. I was going to jump, he said.
For a while, the cars kept whizzing past me, but finally a woman stopped and tried to talk me out of
jumping.
That just annoyed me, but she probably saved my life because the delay gave the police time to get
there. Just as I was going over, a cop grabbed my arm.
Saling was taken to Norwalk Hospital for observation, but talked them into letting him go.
It would be nice in a Christmas story like this if that attempt to take his own life turned out to be the
dramatic turning point that put Saling back on the road to a healthy life. But mental illness does not
give up so easily
The next two years most of it spent living with a generous friend Saling s days were marked by more
struggles with depression, mood swings and thoughts of suicide.
It would take another hospitalization his third, this one voluntary and help from counselors and
therapists at Ansonia s Birmingham Group Health Services before he would begin the long climb back
to, not a normal life, but a life where Saling could see hard-earned but significant progress toward
stability. And, eventually, to a dream of an apartment of his own.
A pleasant man with golden hair and a slight paunch ( No Santa padding needed ), Saling speaks with
too-much-caffeine rapidity, telling his life story, the trials and the triumphs, concisely, without
hesitation.
When a line strikes him as funny or ironic, he erupts in a burst of staccato laughter.
The daily cocktail of medications he consumes comes with a variety of side effects. One is a tendency
to perspire freely. I watch somebody else work and I sweat, he said, wiping a drop from his forehead.
John Saling was born in California, moving to Massachusetts with his parents when he was 2. Even his
earliest memories are of being somehow different from other children.
In public school, I was always disruptive, always talking, he said.
Academically, I didn t do well. Seeing his troubles, his parents moved him to a private school. Saling s
natural intelligence bloomed with the smaller classes and increased attention.
Before I knew it, I was on the honor rolls, he said.
That innate intelligence would serve him well. It took him through college and on to a master s degree
in divinity from a small conservative seminary. Eventually, he married and had a family.
There were moments of happiness, but much of the time Saling battled the debilitating mood swings
and uncontrollable urges that made life so difficult for his wife and children.
In my 30s, the illness worsened exponentially, he said. I isolated myself. I had no friends.
Finally, in 1993, after eight years of mostly unproductive treatment by a Massachusetts therapist, a
psychiatrist diagnosed Saling as having obsessive-compulsive disorder with paranoia.
Just knowing what was wrong with him was an important step, but it did not end his troubles.
The therapist thought pills would cure me, he said. They didn t.
Saling blames some of his early troubles on the lack of communication between his various therapists,
psychiatrists and the agencies he sought help from.
That s what is so wonderful about Birmingham Group, he said. Here, everything is under one roof.
Whatever your problem might be, they can deal with it. I can t stress that enough.
Gradually, the pressure of his illness shattered the family. His fragile marriage ended in divorce.
One day in 1996, Saling found himself sitting in his pickup truck in Shelton, homeless, with only the
clothes he was wearing, knowing not a soul.
I thought I d have to sleep in my truck, but I found Spooner House shelter in Derby, and they gave me
a bed. But homeless shelters are just what their name implies shelter. They can only provide a bed,
food and some help from the staff, little more. Residents are required to leave the shelter early in the
morning.
They return for lunch, but then must stay out until evening.
By day, Saling found himself wandering the streets of Valley towns, wearing the same clothes he'd
slept in. After a time, his ex-wife drove down from Massachusetts with a paper bag full of clothing.
"It wasn't much," he said, "just a stained shirt, pants and some underwear, but by that time it was very
welcome."
The time he spent in the shelter was not easy. "Homelessness is tough as hell," he said.
Saling's problems worsened during his homelessness. After an incident at the shelter, a counselor took
him to Griffin Hospital in Derby, where he spent the next 15 days in its inpatient psychiatric unit.
Released, he returned to Spooner.
It was then that Saling found the people at Birmingham Group, or they found him. No one seems sure.
Whatever it was, with the agency's help, Saling's slow climb back had begun.
Through Birmingham, Saling was able to get the services he so badly needed: medical and drug
coverage, and consistent counseling. His case manager helped him apply for section 8 federal housing
assistance, and even found a loan program that allowed him to rent an apartment while he waited for
federal approval.
The fulfillment of his dream of having an apartment of his own, and the stability it symbolizes, has
meant much to Saling. Today, almost for the first time in his life, he says, he can see "visible signs of
progress." Gradually, he is returning to the labor market, working part time making marketing calls for
a dry-cleaning service.
Not long ago he was elected to the Birmingham Group's board of directors as the consumer (a word he
dislikes) member.
The despair of 2001 has turned to the hope of 2006. "This is the best I have ever done in my life,"
Saling said.
Although he will be alone this Christmas, on Tuesday, Saling's three children, ages 17, 15 and 13, will
come from North Carolina, where they live with their mother, to spend two days with their father.
"I'm really excited," he said. "It's the only reason I got a Christmas tree."
Saling makes no bones about the holidays being a tough time for him. Even last week, as the houses in
his Derby neighborhood twinkled with colored lights, he felt some of the old, unwanted feelings
creeping back.
He considered calling Birmingham Group's "Warm Line," a service that puts people experiencing less-
than-critical problems in touch with sympathetic ears who offer reassurance and comfort. Instead, he
called some of the friends he's made through Birmingham. Sometimes it takes a person who has
experienced mental illness to understand what another is feeling, is how he puts it.
"I hate the holidays," he said, rubbing his hands together. "I spent a Thanksgiving alone in Griffin
Hospital, and I never want to do it again."
Saling keeps in regular phone contact with his children, and hopes to get a Web camera for his
computer so he can watch them grow.
"Recently, I made an important discovery," he said. "It's that I am not mentally ill. I am diagnosed as
mentally ill. I define who I am." Charles Walsh, who covers regional issues, can be reached at 3306217.